The Vatard Sisters (8 page)

And yet, in truth, there was no need for these scrag-ends of mutton in the workshop to season themselves with a
sauce ravigote
. The men had anything but delicate tastes. They didn’t turn their noses up at spicy foods, at spring onions and garlic. After a few glasses of wine, some cognac and a pipe they stank of abattoirs and drains.

Désirée didn’t find this very appetising. Certainly, she wouldn’t have wanted a gentleman with a black top-hat and a perfumed beard, a man so clean he blew soap-bubbles when he spoke, that would have embarrassed her; she liked to have a laugh with workmen like her father, decent men, whose sweat didn’t smell of lard and fat; she wanted a husband who didn’t have stains on his shirt, who washed his feet every week, a man who didn’t go boozing and who’d let her finally realise her dream: to have a bedroom with floral wallpaper, a bed and a table of walnut wood, white curtains on the windows, a pincushion made of shells, a cup on the dresser with her initials in gilt, and, hanging on the wall, a nice picture of a little cupid knocking on a door. She even daydreamed about this engraving, which she’d seen in a bric-à-brac shop, and she imagined how comfortable and cheerful the room would be with this picture leaning against the mantelpiece, reflecting in its framed glass the back of an alarm clock and two zinc candleholders around which she’d wrap pink paper sconces.

She’d never wanted anything more than this. To live in peace, to be able to put aside ten francs a year in order to afford a dog, and to own, in addition to her bedroom, a small pantry in which, behind a green serge curtain, she could put her water jug and her coal, that was the extent of her soul’s desires!

If he’d had any fears about her in the past, Vatard could sleep peacefully now. His younger daughter wouldn’t lose her head or let herself go in a moment of weakness. Moreover, her sister had done her an inestimable service by not trying to stop her from going astray. Free to indulge herself as much as she wanted, she had no desire to do so, she was holding onto the ‘flower of her maidenhead’, determined not to let it be taken from her without good reason. And what’s more, there was the example of Céline before her, and the trenchant words of the girl who’d thought of throwing herself in the river still rang in her ears. She’d also witnessed her sister’s numerous and casual infatuations, she’d seen her treated with contempt by Eugène, and she herself, having once dared to call him a scoundrel, had received such a resounding slap that her cheek had retained the imprint of his hand for a whole day. This method of ending a discussion hadn’t been to her taste, and if the example of her sister wasn’t appealing, that of the other women at the bindery was even less so. Truly, there’s a lot to dislike about men once one has worked in a workshop with them. And it wasn’t just one, it wasn’t just two…they were all like that, all, even old Chaudrut, an ancient workman, a venerable dotard, clean-shaven with a sanctimonious eye and a shuffling gait. Despite his austere countenance, his afflicting deafness, and his goodnatured air, Chaudrut was nothing more nor less than a dirty old man. A villain and a drunkard, he was an old crony whose filthy instincts had increased with age, he was a crock full of vices that would spill out from time to time over young bits of skirt, spattering them from waistband to hem. Riddled with debts, openly hounded by his creditors, this deaf old man, the bane of landlords who ruined themselves letting him run up huge tabs, would flutter around in his wire-rimmed glasses, cooing and strutting about, pawing at the women and acting the fool, and despite his thinning hair he still found young girls who’d try to rekindle the burned-out embers of his lips with the red-hot fire of their own.

His mistress was a friend of Céline and Désirée, a woman separated from her husband, a fine lass, decent in her own way, who wasn’t so much contemptible as simply a glutton. Chaudrut adored rabbit cooked in wine, and he’d seduced her with these feasts of pallid flesh. Now that he had her in his thrall, he only expended the little strength that remained to him in doling out careful beatings. Looking at love in this way had given Désirée more and more pause for thought. Could she ever be happy with lovers like that? It went without saying that you could be unlucky in your marriage, but after all her father and mother had lived happily enough, and other couples she knew didn’t knock each other about, or only rarely, and then it was because they’d been together for twenty years and it’s normal to get impatient with each other after living together so long. Her mind was made up: she’d wait until she’d found a lover to her liking, a handsome young man who would love her, a tall fair-haired lad, if possible, with long eyelashes and a fine moustache. Sometimes even, while working, she would daydream, eyes staring into the distance, about her future, she imagined seeing him after having been married to him for a month: in the mornings she would get up after having gently kissed him on the eyes, she’d tie his tie for him and pull his shirt down at the back to prevent it riding up at the neck, and then she herself, after having tidied her little household and put the leftover stew from the night before in a small bowl in her lunch-basket so that she could reheat it in the workshop over her little spirit lamp, would leave too, a little early, in order to be able to stroll past the haberdashers and give herself the pleasure of coveting a beautiful little necklace for fifteen sous that she would buy the following Saturday after she’d been paid.

For after all, she was a fine lady and would only consider marrying if it left her well-off enough to spend at least ten francs a month on clothes and make-up, and as she was stitching pages together she would add up figures, calculating her husband’s salary and her own, smiling at the idea that, when they saw her come in with a new hairnet edged with red trim, the other women at Débonnaire & Co. would exclaim: ‘Lord, you’re chic, you are!’

The main thing was to find a man who could fulfill these conditions. Certainly, since she’d reached the age of puberty, and even before, there’d been no lack of would-be lovers. She had an alluring, cute little face, with that mischievous demeanour so appealing in young women, but she hadn’t been satisfied with any of her suitors, fine lotharios who would come round to pay her a visit after a few drinks, and who still had winey stalactites dripping off their moustaches as they strutted about and grinned inanely.

‘You’re too ambitious, it’ll end in tears,’ her sister would say to her, and Désirée, who was gazing at herself in a mirror, complacently admiring her dainty pinkness, would shake her head and flick her hair to give it more body.

‘Well, why not?’ she’d reply, ‘I’m probably no worse looking than anyone else, I’ve a right to be ambitious.’

She was supported in this opinion by her father, who didn’t want her to get married. It was mostly she who did the housework, so he’d gaze at her with an air of tenderness, murmuring: ‘My little girl’s as good as gold, I’d never force her to marry a man she doesn’t like. I’m not a hard-hearted father…’ and, as if he believed or wanted her to believe that parents had the power to force their offspring to marry against their will, he took advantage of this fatherly broadmindedness in order to obtain everything he wanted from Désirée.

Wasn’t she, after all, his favourite? Certainly he loved his other daughter, and very much so, but it wasn’t the same thing. No doubt Céline was a good girl, was sometimes more affectionate even – when she’d found a man – than her younger sister, but she had an unstable character that was really insufferable. The whole house had to submit to the restlessness of her passions, the furious rages of her breakups. On days when she was jilted by a lover, all hell broke loose; she raked the stove with such force that the whole house shook. These alternations of good humour and anger distressed her father. As for her mother, she remained indifferent, eyes staring in astonishment at her grumbling belly, incapable of putting two ideas together or lifting a finger.

The round wall clock struck six times, made a noise as if it was clearing catarrh from its throat, and then slowly its bell sounded six times more.

Désirée had just swallowed the last turnip of a mutton stew; the building was practically deserted; the bindery workers had gone to get some food and a coffee at one of the bars nearby. Only the more prudent women swallowed their meagre provisions in the workshop. The supervisor was grinding some prune stones between her teeth. Céline was warming up some day-old coffee over a small spirit lamp, and Ma Teston was sucking the bones from a rabbit cooked in apple sauce.

A young man entered.

Addressing himself to Désirée, who raised her head, he asked rather shyly: ‘You don’t need any workers here, do you?’

‘That’s none of our concern,’ replied the supervisor, ‘speak to the boss, it’s him who does the hiring.’

The worker twisted his cap between his fingers.

‘He’s not here,’ added the supervisor, ‘come back in half an hour, he’ll definitely be back by then.’

‘I don’t know that face,’ grunted Chaudrut, who, finding himself penniless, was lunching on a bit of bread and cheese in the workshop. That very morning the boss had refused to advance him the ten sous he’d asked for with fake tears in his eyes. The old rogue moaned, casting an envious eye on his daughter’s little girl, who was pouring herself a glass of wine from a small wicker-covered bottle. ‘Take care, my darling,’ he said, ‘you’ll choke yourself, wait until your mouth is empty before drinking.’ He had become very paternal, hoping to make the child feel sorry for him and offer him some of her
piquette
.

The girl making no reply, he got up and, hunched over, shuffling in his slippers, went out bottle in hand to get some water at the fountain, moaning about the pains in his stomach and grumbling about the bloody bad luck he was having.

‘You know,’ said Ma Teston to the little girl, ‘if you give any wine to your grandfather, I’ll tell your mother and then you’ll be for it!’

Chaudrut returned more miserable and maudlin than ever. He placed the bottle in front of him, stared at it shaking his head and, as if overcoming an invincible disgust, he swallowed a mouthful. The little girl was drinking her wine. He was afraid she’d finish the bottle, and unable to restrain himself any longer he muttered: ‘Now darling, you see your grandfather here, he’s not well; couldn’t you leave him a little drop for his dessert?’

‘If that isn’t shameful,’ cried the supervisor, ‘a man of your age trying to hoodwink a child. It’s disgusting.’

‘Is it my fault,’ wailed the old man, ‘if I don’t have a sou?’

‘Yes, it is your fault,’ exclaimed Ma Teston vehemently. ‘If you weren’t drunk all week long, you’d have enough for something to drink today.’

‘Oh, is that so!’ replied Chaudrut who, certain now of not getting anything, became insolent: ‘You’ve got no compassion for anyone else, because you’re too busy lubricating that gullet of yours! Lord have mercy, what a way to rub other people’s noses in it, stuffing yourself like that with a bellyful of rabbit and strong wine. And where, if I may ask, do you put it all ma’am? To get that lot down, you must have intestines like coat sleeves!’

The others had to get between them; Ma Teston, losing all self-control, talked of nothing less than getting him sacked. Fortunately, the foreman bringing in the new worker caused a diversion. He installed his recruit near the water-press and said to him facetiously: ‘Go to it, Auguste, and pump hard!’

The workshop gradually refilled; those who worked on bookcovers installed themselves next to their shears and were trimming pages; others were glueing covers and end papers; the new arrival was struggling between the arms of the press, casting surreptitious glances at Désirée who, while collating engravings, was also secretly watching him.

She found him attractive, with his slightly sly-looking face and his curly blond hair, what’s more he had a sad and gentle air about him; he also had a pretty little blond moustache; his teeth, however, weren’t great, one of them protruded from the gums and another on the left-hand side was turning blue and looked rotten. In short, he was a bit pale and sickly; but even so, he’d still be a credit to any woman he had on his arm.

He didn’t find her very pretty. She was a bit short and her eyes disagreed about which direction they should be pointing, but she was nonetheless attractive with her pink lips, her squint, her haughty air, and her frightened, prudish look. And with it all she was as shiny as a new penny. Her hair was neatly combed, her skirt wasn’t held together by pins, her jacket wasn’t caked with glue or grease, even her boots, which he caught sight of for a moment, were holding up despite being well worn, the laces had been repaired and no buttons were missing, and her petticoat, the bottom of which peeked out from under her dress when she crossed her legs, was white and didn’t have any muck on it.

She must also be quite disciplined, since she didn’t lunch in the little restaurants nearby and she was a girl who, although she kept herself looking prim, hadn’t been silly about buying clothes since the man who came round from Crespin’s didn’t ask her for any money. There were only about two or three women at the Débonnaire workshop who weren’t in debt to that agency. Every week the collector would arrive, his black book with yellow-edged pages under his arm, his silver-badged cap on his head, his uniform with a blue collar and white buttons adorned with the insignia of a greyhound – the symbol of fidelity – and he would write down the amounts paid in his receipt book and in his client’s little red passbook. He also joked with most of them, like a man who knew them well. On this particular day, the receipts were meagre; no one had any money: why didn’t he come back on Saturday? ‘Did he think they were made of money!’ ‘So much the worse for him!’ And the collector, paid by commission, cursed, even though he was used to such snubs.

When he’d gone, they all protested, and as usual never stopped complaining, blaming their misery on the dump where they worked. How could anyone earn a living taking home twelve to fifteen francs a week at most?

‘Well then, why don’t you come in the mornings, and why do you leave so early in the evenings?’ said the supervisor.